Devil's Waltz (23 page)

Robin called at seven to say she was on her way over. She was at my door a half hour later, hair drawn back and French-braided, accentuating the sweet, clean lines of her neck. She wore black teardrop earrings and a cool-pink denim dress that hugged her hips. In her arms were bags of Chinese takeout.

When we’d lived together, Chinese had been the cue for dinner in bed. Back in the good old days I’d have led her into the bedroom, Joe Suave. But two years apart and a reconciliation that was still confusing had shaken my instincts. I took the bags, placed them on the dining room table, and kissed her lightly on the lips.

She put an arm around me, pressed the back of my head, and enlarged the kiss.

When we broke for breath she said, “I hope this is okay — not going out?”

“I’ve been out plenty today.”

“Me too. Delivering the Stealths to the
boys
’ hotel. They wanted me to stay and party.”

“They’ve got better taste in women than in music.”

She laughed, kissed me again, pulled back, and did some exaggerated heavy breathing.

“Enough with the hormones,” she said. “First things first. Let me heat this up and we’ll have ourselves an indoor picnic.”

She took the food into the kitchen. I hung back and watched her move. All these years I’d never tired of watching her move.

The dress was nouveau-rodeo sweetheart — lots of leather fringe and old lace on the yoke. She wore ankle-high boots that echoed sharply on the kitchen floor. Her braid swung as she walked. So did the rest of her but I found myself looking at the braid. Shorter than Cindy Jones’s and auburn instead of dark-brown, but it got me thinking about the hospital again.

She deposited the bags on the counter, started to say something, then realized I hadn’t followed her in. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Something the matter, Alex?”

“No,” I lied, “just admiring.”

One of her hands darted to her hair and I realized she was nervous. That made me want to kiss her again.

I said, “You look gorgeous.”

She flashed a smile that tightened my chest and held out her arms. I went into the kitchen.

“Tricky,” she said later, trying to knit my chest hair with chopsticks.

“The idea,” I said, “is to show your devotion by knitting me a sweater. Not turning me into one.”

She laughed. “Cold moo goo. What a gourmet treat.”

“At this moment, wet sand on toast would be okay.” I stroked her face.

Placing the chopsticks on the nightstand, she moved closer. Our sweaty flanks stuck together and made wet-plastic noises. She turned her hand into a glider and flew it over my chest, barely touching skin. Propping herself up, she bumped her nose against mine, kissed my chin. Her hair was still braided. As we’d made love, I’d held it, passing the smooth rope between my fingers, finally letting go when I began to lose control, for fear of hurting her. Some of the curly strands had come loose and they tickled my face. I smoothed them back and nuzzled her under her chin.

Her head lifted. She massaged my chest some more, stopped, inspected, looped a finger under a single hair, and said, “Hmm.”

“What?”

“A
gray
one — isn’t that
cute
.”

“Adorable.”

“It is, Alex. You’re
maturing
.”

“What’s that, the euphemism of the day?”

“The
truth
, Doctor. Time’s a sexist pig — women decay; men acquire a vintage. Even guys who weren’t all that cute when they were young have a second shot at studliness if they don’t let themselves go completely to seed. The ones like you, who were adorable to begin with, can really clean up.”

I started panting.

“I’m serious, Alex. You’ll probably get all craggy and wise — look like you really understand the mysteries of life.”

“Talk about false advertising.”

She inspected each of my temples, turning my head gently with strong fingers and burrowing through the hair.

“This is the ideal place to start silvering,” she said in a teacher’s voice. “Maximum class-and-wisdom quotient. Hmm, nope, I don’t see anything yet, just this one little guy, down here.” Touching a nail to the chest hair, she brushed my nipple again. “Too bad you’re still a callow youth.”

“Hey, babe, let’s party.”

She put her head back down and reached lower, under the blanket.

“Well,” she said, “there’s something to be said for callow too.”

We moved to the living room and listened to some tapes she’d brought. The new Warren Zevon casting cold light upon the dark side of life — a novel in miniature. A Texas genius named Eric Johnson who produced musical textures from the guitar that made me want to burn my instruments. A young woman named Lucinda Williams with a beautiful, bruised voice and lyrics straight from the heart.

Robin sat on my lap, curled small, her head on my chest, breathing shallowly.

When the music was over she said, “Is everything okay?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You seem a little distracted.”

“Don’t mean to be,” I said, wondering how she could tell.

She sat up and undid her braid. Her curls had matted and she began separating the strands. When she’d fluffed them and restored the natural perm, she said, “Anything you want to talk about?”

“It really isn’t anything,” I said. “Just work — a tough case. I’m probably letting it get to me too much.”

I expected her to let that go, but she said, “Confidential, right?” with just a trace of regret.

“Limited confidentiality,” I said. “I’m a consultant and this one may spill over into the criminal justice system.”

“Oh.
That
kind of case.”

She touched my face. Waited.

I told her the story of Cassie Jones, leaving out names and identifying marks.

When I finished, she said, “Isn’t there anything that can be done?”

“I’m open to suggestions,” I said. “I’ve got Milo running background checks on the parents and the nurse, and I’m doing my best to get a feel for all of them. Problem is, there isn’t a shred of real evidence, just logic, and logic isn’t worth much, legally. The only fishy thing so far is the mother lying to me about being the victim of an influenza epidemic when she was in the army. I called the base and managed to find out there’d been no epidemic.”

“Why would she lie about something like that?”

“The real reason she was discharged could be something she wants to hide. Or, if she’s a Munchausen personality, she just likes lying.”

“Disgusting,” she said. “A person doing that to their own flesh and blood. To any kid… How does it feel to be back at the hospital?”

“Kind of depressing, actually. Like meeting an old friend who’s gone downhill. The place seems gloomy, Rob. Morale’s low, cash flow’s worse than ever, lots of staff have left — remember Raoul Melendez-Lynch?”

“The cancer specialist?”

“Uh-huh. He was
married
to the hospital. I watched him weather crisis after crisis and keep on ticking. Even he’s gone — took a job in Florida.
All
the senior physicians seem to be gone. The faces I pass in the halls are new. And young. Or maybe I’m just getting old.”

“Mature,” she said. “Repeat after me: ma-ture.”

“I thought I was callow.”

“Mature
and
callow. Secret of your charm.”

“Top of all that, the crime problems out on the street are leaking in more and more. Nurses beaten and robbed… A couple of nights ago there was a murder in one of the parking lots. A doctor.”

“I know. I heard it on the radio. Didn’t know you were back working there or I would have freaked.”

“I was there the night it happened.”

Her fingers dug into my hand, then loosened. “Well, that’s reassuring…. Just be careful, okay? As if my saying it makes a difference.”

“It does. I promise.”

She sighed and put her head on my shoulder. We sat there without talking.

“I’ll be careful,” I said. “I mean it. Old guys can’t afford to be reckless.”

“Okay,” she said. A moment later: “So that’s why you’re down. I thought it might be me.”

“You? Why?”

She shrugged. “The changes — everything that’s happened.”

“No way,” I said. “You’re the bright spot in my life.”

She moved closer and rested a hand on my chest. “What you said before — the hospital being gloomy? I’ve
always
thought of hospitals that way.”

“Western Peds was different, Rob. It used to be… vital. Everything meshing together like this wonderful organic
machine
.”

“I’m sure it was, Alex,” she said softly. “But when you get down to it, no matter how vital or caring a hospital is, it’s always going to be a place of death, isn’t it? Mention the word
hospital
to me and what comes to my mind is my dad. Lying there, all tubed and punctured and helpless. Mom screaming for the nurse every time he moaned, no one really caring… The fact that
your
place treats kids only makes it worse, as far as I’m concerned. ’Cause what’s worse than suffering kids? I never understood how you stayed there as long as you did.”

“You build up a shell,” I said. “Do your job, let in just enough emotion so you can be useful to your patients. It’s like that old toothpaste commercial. The invisible shield.”

“Maybe that’s what’s really bothering you, coming back after all these years, and your shield’s gone.”

“You’re probably right.” I sounded glum.

“Some shrink I am,” she said.

“No, no. It’s good talking about it.”

She snuggled up against me. “You’re sweet to say so, whether it’s true or not. And I’m glad you told me what’s on your mind. You never used to talk much about your work. The few times I tried, you changed the subject, so I could tell you weren’t comfortable with it and I never pushed. I know part of it was confidentiality, but I really wasn’t after gory details, Alex. I just wanted to know what you were going through so I could support you. I guess you were protecting me.”

“Maybe I was,” I said. “But to tell the truth, I never really knew you wanted to hear any of it.”

“Why’s that?”

“You always seemed more interested in — how can I say this — angles and planes.”

She gave a small laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. I never was much for touchy-feely. In fact, when we first met, the one thing that I wasn’t sure I liked about you was that you were a psychologist. Not that it stopped me from chasing you shamelessly, but it did surprise me — being attracted to a shrink. I didn’t know a thing about psychology, never even took a course in college. Probably because of Dad. He was always making comments about crazy psychiatrists, crooked doctors. Going on about how anyone who didn’t work with his hands couldn’t be trusted. But as I got to know you and saw how serious you were about what you did, I loosened up. Tried to learn — I even read some of your psych books. Did you know that?”

I shook my head.

She smiled. “At night, in the library. I used to sneak in when you were sleeping and I couldn’t.
Schedules of Reinforcement. Cognitive Theory
. Pretty strange stuff for a woodchopper like me.”

“I never knew,” I said, amazed.

She shrugged. “I was… embarrassed. I don’t really know why. Not that I was trying to be an expert or anything. Just wanted to be closer to you. I’m sure I didn’t send out a clear message… not sympathetic enough. I guess what I’m saying is, I hope we can continue this way. Letting each other in a little more.”

“Sure we can,” I said. “I never found you unsympathetic, just—”

“Preoccupied? Self-obsessed?”

She looked up at me with another chest-tightening smile. Big white upper incisors. The ones I liked to lick.

“Strongly focused,” I said. “You’re one a them artsy-fartsy creative types. Need intense concentration.”

“Strongly focused, huh?”

“Definitely.”

She laughed. “We’ve definitely got a thing for each other, Dr. Delaware. Probably chemical — pheromones or whatever.”

“That we do, that we do.”

She put her head on my chest. I stroked her hair and thought of her going into the library, reading my books.

“Can we try again?” I said. “Will you come back?”

She tensed hard as bone.

“Yes,” she said. “God, yes.”

She sat up, took my face in her hands and kissed it. Scrambled on me, straddling me, her arms down over my shoulders, gripping.

I ran my hands over her back, held her hips, raised myself to her. We fused once more, rocked and rolled together, silent and intent.

Afterward she lay back, panting. I was breathing hard, too, and it took a long time to wind down.

I rolled on my side and wrapped my arms around her. She pressed her belly up against mine, glued herself to me.

We stayed together for a long while. When she started to get restless, the way she always did, and began to pull away, I didn’t let her go.

She stayed the night and, as usual, was up early.

What wasn’t usual was her sticking around for another hour to drink coffee and read the paper. She sat next to me at the table, one hand on my knee, finishing the arts section as I skimmed the sports scores. Afterward, we went down to the pond and threw pellets to the fish. The heat had come on early for spring, overpowering the ocean currents, and the air smelled like summer vacation.

Saturday, but I felt like working.

She remained at my side. We touched a lot but the signs of her restlessness were beginning: flexing muscles, random glances, minuscule lags in the conversation that only a lover or a paranoiac would have noticed.

I said, “Got a busy one planned?”

“Just a few things to catch up on. How about you?”

“The same. I’m planning to hit the hospital sometime today.”

She nodded, put both arms around my waist, and we walked back up to the house, entwined. After she got her purse we descended to the carport.

A new truck was parked next to the Seville. Royal-blue Chevy pickup with a white racing stripe along the side. New car registration sticker on the windshield.